


Christmas Day

by isamariposa



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Breakfast, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Smut, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: -Twelfth Night belongs to the men, in merrymaking and revelry, and rowdy games Francis takes little pleasure in but that are necessary for morale. Christmas Day, in contrast, is theirs, and theirs only.Jopson and Crozier celebrate a quiet Christmas morning for the 7th year in a row.Terror bingo free square.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Christmas Day

* * *

Francis has been drifting in and out of sleep uneasily, as he usually does in the months of perpetual night, when a gentle shake startles him awake. It must be Jopson. Francis grumbles and tries to burrow more into the warm covers, wishing he'd go away and let him sleep.

"Wake up, Captain," he says. "It's Christmas Day today."

Francis opens his eyes, then. Thomas is sitting on his berth right next to him, on top of the blankets. He is not wearing his full uniform - without his naval coat or jacket, he looks almost an ordinary man, in a simple vest and a red guernsey frock underneath. The flickering light of the lamp gives his face a lovely glow. 

Francis smiles at him. "Merry Christmas," he says, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Merry Christmas, sir. Here's to making it even merrier."

Thomas bends down and presses a light kiss to his lips - very quick, barely a peck. He pulls back when Francis tries to grab him to keep him down for a little longer.

"None of that," he says. "We haven't much time to tarry in bed."

"Tarrying in bed is precisely my idea of how to spend Christmas morning."

Thomas cocks his head. "Is it really? More than what I've prepared?"

Francis has to consider his answer for a moment. While the bed is warm and cozy, and he vaguely does want Thomas, he is in fact very fond of this tradition of theirs to celebrate Christmas together. It began long ago, during their Antarctic voyage, with snow and ice aplenty but the days foreignly bright. Of course, the first year they did this, they did not yet have their current understanding. Francis remembers the way Thomas looked at him that first Christmas morning, nervous, unsure if taking these liberties would be welcome. It was the first time Francis considered the idea of growing attached to him. 

"No," he says. "I would not miss it for the world."

Thomas beams at him. "I am glad it's so," he says. "Now, will you be washing and dressing, or would you prefer staying in your nightclothes?"

Francis is very tempted to just drag his blanket along and sit in the great cabin just as he is, and while he knows Thomas would indulge him if he wanted to feel so decadent, he also knows his steward prefers him clean and combed and dressed as befits his station, especially on this day.

"I will wash and dress by myself," he says. "Go wait for me in the great cabin until I'm ready."

"I don't -"

"Jopson," Francis interrupts. "Do as I say. This is the only gift I may give you this year, I'm afraid."

"I hardly think it's a gift, sir."

"No? A break from helping an old man wash is not your idea of a gift?"

"I happen to be rather fond of that old man, and very much enjoy our quiet moments when I help him dress. But I will obey you."

Francis can tell Thomas is a little displeased from the way he purses his lips as he brings the water bassinet into the cabin and sets the clothes for the day on the desk. But he does everything with his usual attentiveness, and he smiles at him as he steps back into the great cabin.

"I'll wait until you're ready, sir," he says, and leaves him be.

Francis dips his hand in the water, expecting it to be cold, but it's pleasantly lukewarm. Jopson always thinks of everything. He freshens up without much enthusiasm, regretting having sent him away. But this at least he can do for him: be ready and presentable on Christmas Day. He should have risen earlier. Twelfth Night belongs to the men, in merrymaking and revelry, and rowdy games Francis takes little pleasure in but that are necessary for morale. Christmas Day, in contrast, is theirs, and theirs only. 

He usually contents himself with the soap issued by the Admiralty, its smell nondescript and bland, but today, perhaps out of vanity, Francis opens the small flask of eau de cologne that he keeps in his desk, and applies but a few drops of the citrusy scent to his neck and armpits. The flask is nearly empty, dissipated by the long voyage, but what remains of its essence smells pleasant, as far as he can tell. He dresses into the clothes Thomas has chosen for him, and finally steps out of his room.

"Ohh," he can't help saying, as he takes in the decorations of the great cabin.

Thomas has placed a row of five candles by the window, all of them lit against the terrible darkness as if to guard against it - a row of faithful soldiers beaming out to the night. A single garland hangs by the central window, alas, not with evergreen as is the custom, but with yellowed bits of paper for letters on a single string, cut together and assembled to look like branches. Thomas has covered the table with a white tablecloth, and on each of the corners he has fastened a golden ribbon that seems suspiciously made out of the fabric used to mend uniform ranks. On the table itself - breakfast, though even from where he stands Francis can see there's an abundance of biscuits and sweets. And by the table, Neptune, a red bow tied around his neck, wagging his tail excitedly. Every year resembles the last, but every year Francis is taken aback by Thomas's uncanny ability to make the otherwise austere cabin cozy and cheerful - a home away from home.

"Thank you," he whispers, almost afraid to disturb the perfection of the picture as he steps into it.

"It's been a pleasure, my dearest Francis," Thomas says just as quietly. 

He very rarely uses his Christian name, and every time he does it without being promoted to, it sets Francis's heart aflutter. Still a little dazzled, he sits at the table and bids Thomas to sit with him. By now, of course, they've perfected the art of being inconspicuous - the sound of footsteps nearing at any time would be enough for Jopson to stand up and look every bit like an attentive steward instead of... well, the Captain's _boy_ , for lack of a better term. The decorations might be a little harder to explain, but thus far they've never been interrupted on Christmas morning, and they have at least one hour ahead before the watch changes completely and the ship stirs awake. For now, Thomas sits next to him at the table, squeezes his hand, and keeps it in his for a brief moment. Francis has to clear his throat before speaking.

"Now," he says, and raises an eyebrow at his breakfast plate. "What have we here?"

"A larger breakfast than usual, inasmuch as I could manage with the current state of the pantry, sir. Barley. Salted pork. Potatoes. And biscuits and sweets. Please don't ask me what unspeakable things I had to do to procure myself sweets for today."

"Were there none left in your pantry?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. I had to get them through other means."

"Nothing too untoward, I hope?"

"Fear not, my honour and my reputation are intact," Thomas says, trying to stifle his grin as he takes on a deceptively modest air.

"I bloody well hope they are." Francis can't help laughing. "And to drink?"

"Mulled beer, sir." Thomas slides the warm cup closer to him. "I'm afraid I used up the last of my spices for it."

Francis wraps his hand over Thomas's, sharing the heat of the cup. There will be no spices if they make it to next Christmas, then. Perhaps there will not even _be_ a next Christmas. He hates himself for having had that thought, on this day of all days.

"We'll share all this, of course," he says, hastily.

"I couldn't possibly..."

"Good God, Thomas, we have this same quarrel every year."

"I would not call it a quarrel. But you know my conditions if you insist."

Yes, yes, he's well aware: for every bite that Thomas has, Francis must have two. On a year that he was particularly irritable on Christmas Day, Thomas resorted to feeding him himself so that he would not cheat. Far from being humiliated, Francis rather enjoyed it. He suspects Thomas did so as well. Neptune trots closer and presses a hopeful muzzle to Francis's thigh, interrupting his brief hesitation.

"I think there might be an interested third party to your bargain," he says, patting the dog's head.

"Don't spoil him. I fed him not a half-hour ago," Thomas says, disapprovingly, and addresses the dog next, though his tone changes to playful. "You're just being a glutton, aren't you, boy?" 

Neptune gives a single bark, wagging his tail at him as if he understood.

"I swear my dog loves you more than he loves me," Francis says with some annoyance, and throws a single potato at Neptune to keep him contented enough.

"He does not," Thomas protests, though he is smiling.

Francis picks up his cutlery and starts with the barsley, filling the spoon excessively before presenting it to Thomas, who sees nothing of his subterfuge yet as leans closer to be fed. He takes two thinner scoops for himself next, smiling at the taste. Indeed this humble meal, especially the potatoes, reminds him of his bleak childhood in Ireland, though back then this much food would have been a breakfast for a king. His are not happy memories, for the most part. But somewhere along the frigid voyage South, Thomas asked him what Christmas was like when he was younger, and Francis was drunk enough to tell him about his grandmother. His _Papist_ grandmother, and his resulting conflicted faith or lack thereof. He still doesn't know why he told him that. He never said it out loud to anyone. Much later, he asked Thomas why he wasn't more shocked. He said, 'I think in the end we all follow the same Teachings, sir,' and Francis felt, for the first time, that something was thawing inside him despite the cold.

"What would you eat today, if you could choose?" he asks, glancing at Thomas who is chewing on a piece of bacon.

"This," he answers, sounding puzzled. "It's perfectly good food."

Francis signals no with his hand. "But if you could have any kind of food just now, say by enchantment, or by miracle, what would it be?"

Thomas drops his gaze and smiles, like he does when he's embarrassed. He does not have to think long.

"An orange, sir," he says.

"An orange?" Francis repeats, to encourage him to elaborate.

"They were impossibly expensive when I was a boy. It was a treat to ever get my hands on one, and I was always craving for more."

Thomas still doesn't meet his gaze. He rarely speaks of his childhood, but Francis has pieced it together enough to know that it was as lacking as his. A young life marked with poverty, drudgery, and yet marginally happy because of the love of his family - mother, brothers, sisters. Unlike his own. By now, Neptune has realised that he won't be having any success begging for scraps from Francis, and perhaps sensing the change in mood, he trots over to Thomas who pets him eagerly and gets licked all over.

"I'm clearly not the one who spoils him," Francis grumbles, though he's taken in at the sight of their easy playfulness. It was love at first sight. In 43', Thomas came to see him in London and discovered his newest fancy: Neptune, then just a puppy, sensed an ally in him at once. They've been best mates ever since. In another life, maybe, they'd all live together in a large house, and they'd take long walks with the dog every morning. Francis places a hand on Thomas's thigh and squeezes it softly. 

"I'll buy you two dozen oranges if we ever return to London," he tells him.

"That many? What am I to do with two dozens?" Thomas says, lightly, still playing with the dog, and Francis thanks his stars he focused on that part of the sentence, and not on the giant _if_ hanging over their heads.

"How should I know? A cordial, a cake, whatever you wish for."

"You overestimate my cooking skills."

"I'm certain they are better than mine."

"Perhaps. The oranges are a nice thought, sir. I thank you in advance." Thomas grins at him and pats Neptune away. "Since we are on the topic of gifts, I must confess I have another for you this year."

Francis sets his his cutlery down and sighs, exasperation quickly building inside him. "You've got to stop this, Thomas. Especially since I have nothing in return for you."

"That isn't the point of gifts, sir. Besides, I think we are bound to enjoy it, both of us."

Thomas leans a bit to the side to extract a piece of paper, carefully folded, out of the left pocket of his trousers. Instead of handing it to Francis, he folds it out and lays it flat on the table, then slides it towards him: a small watercolor, painted with an uncertain hand. It's not a particularly skilled rendition (the colours are uneven, the paint has dripped to a corner of the paper, and the painter's hand must have trembled when doing the smaller details, because they are smudged), but Francis cannot help a chuckle when he recognises a mistletoe.

"Did you paint this?" he asks, so absurdly endeared he has to mask it with a smirk.

"In a manner of speaking. Lieutenant Irving has a passion for watercolours, did you know? He kept watching over my shoulder, offering helpful advice and correcting my hand so often I daresay it's half his own work."

Now Francis has to laugh out loud. "You do know, of course, why John paints so enthusiastically?"

"Ah. Yes. I heard the men talking about it." Thomas's smile becomes a little more impish. "I am thankful you and I are not afflicted by such a ghastly torment."

He must do it, he simply must: still laughing, Francis leans over the table, over the image of the mistletoe, and presses a kiss to Thomas's mouth. His heart gives a pang when he finds him responding to it with far more eagerness than when he woke him.

"I do like this gift very much indeed," Francis whispers, against his lips.

"I thought you might. Shall I hang it above the table?"

"Above my bed, rather," he says, an eyebrow raised. How he loves the filthy edge that flashes in Thomas's gaze.

"Of course, sir. Finish your breakfast while I go do that."

He is nearly done, in fact: Francis hurries to gobble down the last bites, and feeds Neptune to finish faster. The mulled beer, sadly, is too warm for him to gulp it down as quickly as he'd like, and by the time Thomas returns he's resigned himself to have to wait a little longer.

"Come here," he says, when he has Thomas close enough to slide an arm around his waist. 

He pulls him onto his lap, with some effort because Thomas isn't thrilled with this compromising position: he tries sitting only on one knee, but Francis pulls harder, and he has to give in, with a laugh so light it's nearly a giggle. Francis would drink this laugh if he could. Neptune joins in the playfulness and rests his head on Thomas's thigh - just for a moment, because the balance isn't right, and he scuttles off with a disapproving bark.

"Your dog is as ill-tempered as you are," Thomas teases.

"He is like that because he knows you'll forgive him."

"Of course I will. I love him, bad temper or not." He smiles at him in a way that makes it clear he isn't talking about the dog, especially not when he strokes Francis's cheek with a finger. "You smell good, sir."

"Hmm. It's kind of you to notice," Francis says, masking his embarrassment with gruffness, but he tightens his hold on him. "Did you think to bring me some whiskey?"

Thomas's smile fades. "No, sir," he says.

"I know what you're thinking. You think I drink too much."

"I've been known to think that occasionally, but in this case, you haven't finished your mulled beer. Your whiskey will have to wait," he says, and slides the cup towards them with the hand he isn't using to balance himself on Francis's lap. 

"Sometimes I think all this Christmas masquerade is designed to please _you_ and not me," Francis says as he drinks from the cup like a scolded child. Two more sips and he will be done.

"It took you seven years to catch on, sir. Well done," Thomas says, and can barely hold back his laughter.

Francis sets the empty cup back on the table, somewhat miffed to find himself being the object of a joke, harmless (and ultimately delightful) as it may be. He places a hand on Thomas's thigh and gives it a squeeze, a bit harder than he'd normally do.

"Very well, then," Francis says, wryly, as he slides his hand further up - determined to make him squirm for this. "May I do this... sir?"

Thomas stares at him, wide-eyed. "What are you doing? Don't call me that, sir."

"No, no, Mister Jopson, you are clearly in command this morning." Francis rests his hand over his crotch but doesn't move it. "So. May I, sir?"

Thomas blinks, hesitant for a moment, but then a devilish little smirk crosses his lips - the kind of secret smile he occasionally flashes at him when they're alone.

"Yes, Francis, you've been good this morning, you may touch me."

So he does: he rubs him over the fabric of his trousers, until he hears Thomas breathing more laboriously, and he begins to feel him hardening under his touch. He hasn't stopped looking at him, at his face, very much enjoying how his cheeks flush red as he grows more agitated. Gone is his self-effacing façade that he wears when he is on duty: Thomas is ten-fold bolder when aroused and he already undoes his own trousers, sparing a brief glance towards the locked door of the great cabin before doing so. Francis slips a hand inside, his own breath catching when he takes Thomas's hardened prick in his hand. He doesn't look at it: he looks straight into his eyes, very much enjoying how Thomas stares at him, flustered, his eyelids half-closed.

"Sssir," he hisses, just under his breath, as Francis starts teasing the tip of his cock with the foreskin. It's a fine one, as cocks go: the head is thick and swollen, and the thin shaft, throbbing under his touches, stands proudly with the vigour of youth that would make Francis envious, if he wasn't so keen at the sight of it.

"What are we to do with this, Mister Jopson?" he asks, his voice thick with want. "What would please you the most this Christmas morning?"

"You, sir," he says, breathless, and when Francis tuts no, he amends, "You, Francis. Please. If it isn't too much to ask."

"We've established that we're to do as you say." Francis raises an eyebrow at him, with a bit of a self-satisfying smirk. "How do you want me? Hmm? On all fours on my berth? Bent over my desk, maybe?"

Thomas makes a choked sound. When they first started this, years ago, Francis was the one doing the buggering, but as time went by and they grew more used to each other, he developed a rather indecorous appetite for being penetrated - for letting go, for surrendering to him completely. Thomas is the only one he'd trust enough to do this to him. His mouth already waters in anticipation of having this very same prick he's stroking entering him and burying itself deep inside him.

"Let's go inside your cabin," Thomas whispers. When he stands, he is just at the right height for Francis to press a kiss to his cock, and he does so, wantonly, impishly, using his tongue to wet it all over. "In. Your. Cabin. Sir," Thomas repeats, and tugs at Francis's hair with surprising firmness to make him pull away.

Too eager to protest, Francis follows him into the cabin and strokes himself over his clothes as he walks, half-hard already. Thomas is right, after all: having congress here offers an additional layer of discretion should anyone knock on the door of the great cabin. He wishes, uselessly, that they could fully undress for this, but alas, that is impossible aboard, not when being needed at a moment's notice is the usual. They learned this the hard way in the Antarctic expedition, where stray chunks of ice interrupted Francis's pleasure often enough for him to go mad with want - of course, back then he was desperate to have all of Thomas all day, every day, reveling in this newfound liaison. 

Only in London have they ever been able to be as naked and as loud as they pleased (Francis discovered the long scar in Thomas's leg, and other, more subtle ones on the rest of his body as a testament to past mistreatment: he kissed them all, wishing his lips were enough to erase them). Even so, the secrecy forced upon them aboard comes with a thrill, and some of Francis's most ardent memories are inevitably tied to pressing his hand to Thomas's mouth to muffle his moans as he had him bent over a desk.

There is just room enough for two men to stand in his cabin: Francis considers sitting on his berth, but he notices Thomas did not quite hang the picture of the mistletoe above it. It hangs from the middle of the room, so he stands under it, watching Thomas as he arranges the salve and a clean cloth with the same meticulous gestures he uses when serving tea - despite the idle pumps he gives to his prick to keep it firm and ready. His trousers are half sliding down, resting just where his arse begins to curve and giving Francis a lovely view of the small of his back, increasing his own desire. But he stays very still, not doing anything to himself until Thomas turns to face him: this is and has always been his favourite part of it all, the moment when his steward finally undresses him, the line between faithful service and debauchery blurred and smudged as his trousers come undone. Thomas presses a light kiss to his lips under the mistletoe, and another, and then another as he pulls down Francis's drawers and wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking him vigorously until he's making the most undignified sounds under his breath.

"Oh, do get on with it, Thomas," he tells him, bucking into his hand rather helplessly. "Or I'll have you know I'm not above begging."

"As much as I'd enjoy that, sir, there is no need to beg. Even in this, I am ever at your command."

"Even on Christmas Day?"

"On Christmas Day above all days."

It always surprises him how strong Thomas really is, his otherwise gentle demeanour at odds with how deftly he wraps an arm around him to turn him and make him face the wall. Francis takes in a deep breath. Standing up is not his preferred position, but once Thomas forces him into it he finds himself longing for it. He cannot help tensing when he feels him taking a hold of his arse and spreading his cheeks apart, but he makes himself loosen with another exhalation that sounds much like a muted moan. Thomas's cock, rock-hard and oiled up, rests against the cleft of his backside.

"You must tell me, sir, if this causes you any discomfort," he whispers into his ear.

"Do not hold back on my account, Thomas. Bugger me hard and thoroughly. Don't spare me in the slightest."

"As you wish... sir," Thomas says, and presses a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

The first push is always the most shocking. Francis clenches his jaw, biting back a gasp as he feels the thick tip of Thomas's cock easing its way inside him, the tight muscle resisting being stretched thus. He must stay silent, he must. The second thrust jolts him upwards, enough for him to shudder against the wall. Even so, he can tell Thomas is being careful - he appreciates that despite having asked otherwise, catching his breath the best he can in this moment of respite. When he finally regains his wits enough to bear down, Thomas slides fully inside him and Francis lets out a sigh of relief.

For all that he was cautious at first, Thomas is prompt to build up a rhythm, his thrusts quick and shallow into him, going in and out most deliciously as his cock slides alongside that certain spot that always knocks Francis breathless. One of Thomas's hands reaches around to take a hold of his forgotten prick, and he gives it a few jerks to match the thrusts, the pleasure two-fold and overwhelming in its suddenness. Francis isn't sure whether this lasts five seconds or five minutes, his senses failing him utterly as he revels in the tension building up inside him. 

Then, quite unexpectedly, Thomas grabs one of his arms with his free hand, twisting it behind Francis's back and pressing him hard against the wooden wall of the cabin as he pushes more inside him. Stunned, helpless as he feels the wall against the side of his face, Francis lets out a faint cry.

"Shh," Thomas says, gently, his breath searing hot against his ear. "I've got you, sir. I've got you," he says, soothing but merciless in his thrusts. His voice has a delightfully brazen edge. "You did ask for hard and thorough. I must do as you command. Isn't that right, Captain?"

"Yes, yes," Francis croaks, barely coherent. "That's... a good lad, yes."

As ever, his words of praise go straight to Thomas's prick, for he feels him picking up his speed. Francis struggles against him as if trying to break free, when that is far from his true intent. But the grip holding him in place does not waver: Thomas is leaning on his back, his full weight on him, fucking him over and over. Francis closes his eyes, then, and what was building inside him so achingly finally gives, bursts out like a dam, blinding him momentarily with its intensity as he spills on Thomas's hand with a low grunt. He is still very aware, more than aware, that Thomas has not slowed down: on the contrary, his thrusts inside him have grown more frantic, less methodical. His breath becomes hitched and uneven, hoarse, and then he stops with a muted exclamation, sighing deeply against Francis's ear. 

It's finished.

The sounds of the sleepy ship become noticeable once again, though at this early hour there isn't much activity aboard. Someone is walking on the deck to and forth, likely on watch duty. The wood groans against the ice. Outside, the wind howls. And somewhere nearer, in the great cabin, Neptune is scratching himself. Francis takes solace in the fact that despite the silence of the ship, they are unlikely to have been heard, except perhaps by Dr. McDonald, who shares a wall with Francis. But he'd never say a word - he never has.

Thomas is busy cleaning him up, front and back. The rag is unpleasantly cold against his skin, between his arsecheeks: the water in the bassinet is no longer lukewarm. Francis very much feels like hissing with displeasure, but he's so very mellow at the moment that he cannot even make a noise of protest. Then Thomas turns him around, his gesture tender, and he promptly pulls up Francis's drawers and trousers. He has buttoned his own trousers, and if it were not for the deep flush of his cheeks and his still ragged breath, he would look the perfect picture of only a solicitous steward. Francis watches him button him up, and then lets himself be led to sit on the berth. When Thomas starts combing his hair, Francis wraps his arms around him, letting them rest on the small of his back as he looks up at him.

"Sit with me, Thomas," he whispers to him.

"One moment, sir," he says, frowning in concentration at whatever stray hair he's combing back. Then he smiles down at him, and sits next to him on the berth, his deep sigh betraying how much his exertions have worn him. "Was that to your satisfaction?" he asks, but his coyness is only feigned, and there's laughter in his eyes.

Francis stifles a laugh and wraps an arm around Thomas's shoulders. "Oh, quite," he says. "Though I'd daresay it was to yours too."

"Yes," Thomas admits, and lets out a most endearing giggle. But then he grows serious. "However, being with you, like this - just the two of us this morning. That's enough for me, sir. I mean it. I am not trying to be obsequious."

"I know when you're being obsequious and I know when you mean what you say," Francis says, a little gruffly - offended at the thought he would not remark the difference. "It's the same for me, my dearest boy. I do love your decorations, and your attentions on this day, but..." His throat feels suddenly tight. "We're as far north as man can go," he adds. "And yet when I'm with you I begin to forget it."

Thomas touches his face, stroking his cheek with a finger. "It's what I'm here for, sir."

"It really isn't, Thomas. But I thank you all the same." He leans closer to press a kiss to Thomas's lips. "My Christmases are merrier because of you."

Thomas tries to deepen the kiss by holding the side of his face, but the sound of the bell cuts through the silence of the ship, breaking the spell, calling them to order. Francis sighs and pulls back.

"Four bells, sir," Thomas says as he stands. "I must tidy the great cabin. Shall you return to bed or shall you rise?"

"I need a moment to catch my breath." He smiles, wryly. "This old body cannot snap back to action at once, unlike yours."

"Said old body is a delight," Thomas says, hands behind his back at attention. He winks at him. "Rest all you wish, Captain. I'll rouse you at six bells if you happen to fall asleep."

Thomas stands on his tiptoes and unfastens the painting of the mistletoe from the small hook on the ceiling. He folds the paper in half and tucks it inside the breast pocket of Francis's vest. Francis presses his hand on it, as if hoping to make it imprint itself on his chest, on his heart. Thomas smiles at him before he disappears into the great cabin. 

Francis can hear him clearing the plates and taking the decorations down as he talks to Neptune in a playful tone, almost cooing at him. Comforted by these familiar sounds, he lies back down on his berth and pulls the blanket on himself. 

Christmas Day could not be any better.

  
  
  
  
  


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